


Sunday Morning

by thehandofathief



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2247633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehandofathief/pseuds/thehandofathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames enjoys a lazy Sunday with Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Chloe <3

Weekends meant nothing to Eames;  Fridays weren't the end of his week and Saturdays weren't for lying in.  Sometimes it would take him a few moments to even remember what day it was, especially out in Mombasa where each morning came in hot and bright.  Every day felt the same, for better or worse. 

It had been no different his first morning back in London until he went outside and noticed that the shops still had their shutters down.  A few seconds of mild confusion were followed by the realisation that it was Sunday.  What a strange feeling to suddenly remember the significance of something.  He hadn't been home in years and here he was, re-adjusting to what used to be normality alone on the still quiet streets of Bloomsbury.

The only coffee shop open on a Sunday morning was Starbucks so Eames ordered tea and sat for a while.  His suit was a little too light for the season and he noticed goose bumps on his arms even before he felt the chill.  Maybe he'd be home long enough to need a coat this year, probably not.

When he got back to the rented flat, he could hear Arthur moving around and he stopped to savour the feeling of coming home to someone.  It had been a last minute thing, Arthur coming with him, if they'd planned it then one of them would have likely backed out.  Spontaneity was, by necessity, the backbone of their relationship.  Eames took a deep breath and walked into the living room where he found Arthur settling cross legged onto the sofa dressed in torn jeans and an old shirt.  Eames had never seen him like that before and he wasn't sure if he managed to hide his surprise in time.

"What're you doing in your Sunday best?" Arthur asked and Eames looked down at his shirt and slacks like he was trying to remember.  "Take it off," Arthur said with a smile and Eames faltered for second.

"I forgot it was Sunday," Eames said, by way of explanation.

Arthur shook his head in mock disbelief and his hair fell about his face in sweet, loose curls and Eames unconsciously licked his lips at the sight of him so raw and so, so beautiful. 

"Speaking of forgetting shit," Arthur began, "I left my contacts in LA so," Arthur put on a pair of square rimmed glasses, "what do you think?"

Eames didn't answer and the smile faded from Arthur's face.  "You look," Eames started, there were so many things he could have said, wanted to say even but instead he fell silent.  Arthur looked young in his glasses.  Very, very young.

Arthur uncurled his legs with a grace that was so uncommon in men as strong as him and walked over to Eames, wrapping his arms around his neck.  They were pretty much the same height when Arthur was barefoot and Eames was wearing his shoes so Arthur rocked up onto the balls of his feet to press a chaste kiss against Eames' lips, liking the familiarity in the way he had to dip his head to do so. 

"Hey," Arthur whispered against his lips before resting his head on Eames' shoulder and running his hand down his back.  Eames had always wondered how many people guessed how deliberate and gentle Arthur is.  Just how many people understood that his power translates into fluidity; that his skin can barely contains what he is.  How many projections have died blissful in his arms?  "Where are you?" he breathed against Eames' neck.

Eames pushed them apart, slightly, and looked into Arthur's eyes; lifted his hand to his face, traced the shape if his mouth and the line of his jaw.  He had forgotten tenderness before Arthur, Arthur who had in turn learned tenderness from Mal.  She'd only been gone a few months when Arthur first met Eames.  Dom and Arthur didn't even know if Eames could be trusted, he was so good at what he did that he had no reputation.  That day when they first met he'd felt Eames' eyes on him, heavy, picking him clean down to the bone.  Arthur had never seen a forger so talented before and he'd never met anyone who was so sure of themselves.  He was articulate and intelligent and his shirt pulled slightly across his stomach and he ordered beer and drank it straight out of the bottle (his lips shining after every sip).  By the end of the day Arthur was dizzy with desire. 

Eames had met with Arthur and Dom in the same hotel where they were all staying and as Eames moved to leave them behind in the bar to go to his room, Arthur reached out his hand to stop him.

"Yes?"

"I didn't catch your first name," Arthur said, unable to meet Eames' eye.

"Hm.  I'm afraid I don't do first names," Eames said before leaning close to Arthur and whispering, "You can call me _Mr_. Eames, though."  Arthur's face had immediately flushed pink and he realised his hand was still clamped around Eames' arm so he released it and jerked his hand back to his lap.  "Good evening, gentlemen, it was a pleasure.  I'll be in room 418 if you need me."

That night Arthur had tried to ignore the pull in his chest but in the nothing hour before dawn he found himself standing outside room 418 and when Eames opened the door he kissed him deeply.  He was so starved and so lonely that yes, this stranger's mouth was a kind of heaven.  Eames had held him tight and close, so hard that he could barely breathe and his chest ached and Arthur knew then that he was desperate too.  Later, as they lay together intertwined, Arthur felt close to Mal again, which is to say he felt close to happiness. 

Whatever Eames was, whoever he was, Arthur would always be drawn to him and connected to him.

Now they were standing in an empty shell of a flat, closer and yet farther apart than ever before.  Arthur could feel his heart racing, could almost hear it.  Something was shifting between them, a little more each day.  It was Eames who usually broke the tension, either by ripping off a few buttons or saying something appalling but not this time.

"Eames?" Arthur ventured, "have you ever kissed a guy who wore glasses before?"

Eames laughed and Arthur felt a sweep of relief, "Of course, Arthur, I've kissed _every_ kind of man."

"Are you trying to make me jealous?"

Eames slid an arm around his waist and pulled their bodies closer together, "Always". 

Eames brushed his lips against Arthur's until the electricity crackling between them made Arthur whimper and then he grabbed a fistful of Arthur's hair and kissed a hot trail from his mouth to his neck, biting and sucking down to his collarbone.  Arthur always gets lost so easy when Eames is messy and rough with him.  And Arthur moaning and getting heavy and loose in his arms never fails to make Eames want to slam into him, to fight him down onto the floor. And Eames knew from experience that pushing a beautiful man's naked body into the carpet was a good way to make a rented place feel like home.

By the afternoon they'd made it into bed.  Eames was unexpectedly charmed by Arthur's glasses on the bedside table and as Arthur absently ran his fingers along the outline of his tattoos, Eames wondered if he was short-sighted or  if he was doing it from memory.  As Arthur dipped his head to trace the lines of them with his tongue, Eames realised that he didn't care either way.


End file.
